


the dances we could have danced

by Xmarksthespot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's Grace, Dean's Soul, Demon Dean Winchester, M/M, Season/Series 09 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xmarksthespot/pseuds/Xmarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Be careful not to nick yourself,” Uriel had once joked before Castiel’s descent through the pits of Hell. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The relationship between Castiel's grace and Dean's soul from start to finish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dances we could have danced

“Be careful not to nick yourself,” Uriel had once joked before Castiel’s descent through the pits of Hell.

Castiel had later wished his brothers had a higher opinion of mortal souls, because the sight of Dean Winchester’s soul could not be compared to glass shards. They were fragments of diamonds, thousands upon millions of shining diamonds burning vehemently in the throes of sin.

Despite the first seal having been broken, they contrasted in the darkness enough to guide the angel, luring him to each piece of the puzzle.

And as Castiel collected them all, brought them to a safe haven where he sewed them together with the strings of his own grace, recreating the very core of the Righteous Man, his gaze lingered longer than they ever had.

For Dean Winchester’s soul was nothing short of enthralling.

 

Castiel had never told Dean this, but despite the hunter’s attempt to kill him during their initial meeting and his constant mistrust towards all of Heaven’s angels with each aggravating encounter following, his soul did, in fact, recognize him.

It was… _loud_.

He did not think his brothers noticed, the way Dean’s soul flickered like an open fire upon their presence. It was odd how in the depths of Hell, Castiel had compared the essence to the brightness of diamonds: adamantine and ethereal – words he would not want to express out loud. But here, on Earth with the remnants of his family, Dean’s soul glowed with life.

It waved to him on occasion, reintroducing itself to Castiel. The arms of its flame-like aura extended and pointed to itself, as if saying: _hey, remember me?_

Once, when his brothers had left him alone with the Winchesters, Castiel manipulated his grace to wave back, and Dean’s soul brightened around Castiel’s vessel so much so that he could not fathom how it shone brighter than a millennia’s worth of stars. It was—

“Dammit, Cas!”

— _alluring._

“I told you to stop reading my mind,” Dean Winchester’s voice carried his lingering observation back towards the plane of humanity. The man’s frown incredibly contrasted the playful delight of his soul, much to Castiel’s confusion.

“I have kept my promise, Dean. I was not intruding your thoughts,” Castiel replied.

“Then what’s with all the staring? You’re giving me goose bumps here, and not in a good way.”

Castiel had not truly understand the latter part of Dean’s speech, but he knew how distracted he had grown to be for those few short weeks, studying the burning constellations that was Dean’s soul. When he did not respond, Dean accepted his so-called confusion and added:

“Never mind. Just lay off with the creepy eye thing.”

Castiel nodded, forcing himself to look away, if only to save Dean from the discomfort.

One of his first lessons on Earth was that it was hard to look away from a forest fire.

 

Dean’s soul, according to Castiel’s observations, remained calm and still around Robert Singer, sizzling into relaxation whenever the older hunter was around. Castiel understood this. Bobby was Dean’s father figure; Dean would, of course, feel safer around him.

In contrast, his very being attempted more than once to jump bodies whenever Sam Winchester was nearby. It was as if it wanted to latch itself onto Sam, shield the large man from the evils of the world. Especially when the demon Ruby was near, Dean’s soul became very hostile. Castiel tried on occasion not to smirk whenever the flames attempted to hiss at the woman, and while human ears could not hear its violent protests, he’s sure Dean’s unsubtle growl towards her was just as effective.

It was one of Dean’s most admirable and confusing traits; Castiel did not think he would allow his grace to desire departure from his vessel, even for the purpose of protecting one of his brothers.

“So, you’re beginning to doubt, huh? What’s that like, feeling it for the first time?”

Dean’s soul at that very moment was quite in agony, unknowing where his brother left at that time of the night, though truth be told, Castiel very much so enjoyed Dean’s company whenever they were alone in the motel room without Lucifer’s vessel nearby. He sat at the very edge of Sam’s bed across from Dean who laid on his own.

Castiel could still see the soul thrash around in Dean’s body, wailing for Sam to come back soon. Without breaking from his vessel’s façade, he extended his grace, like grown arms comforting a child. He never touched the soul, just soothed it enough so that Dean, whether he noticed it or not, could be at ease. It pleased Castiel when the bright light flickered in recognition of the angel’s presence and decidedly calmed.

“It is unnerving,” Castiel finally responded. “I am at a constant struggle between what I believe to be right and what my brothers…”

Dean raised an eyebrow at the trailed off sentence, his soul also perking up curiously.

Finally, Castiel admitted, “Dean, they are my family. I do not wish to fight them.”        

The hunter stared off into the distance, at the television screen even though he had long ago turned it off. His response was a quick, subtle nod.

“I get it.”

“You do?”

“Hell yeah. I remembered one of my first doubts.”

Suddenly, the fire inside Dean danced excitedly, and Castiel stared at it deeply, bewildered by its change of expression. It jumped towards all the walls of Dean’s body, like the small dog that leapt towards Sam three days ago when they were walking down the streets.

“My mom and dad told me I was going to Sunny’s Funland,” Dean said, “Was this theme park that was around back then, but you know what I got? A trip to the dentist.”

Castiel nodded, pocketing away the memory of how Dean’s soul reacted while thinking of the fond memory of his parents.

“So you’re saying my brothers are tricking me and if I continue to listen to them, I will land myself in a location of displeasure, such as an office for dental work?”

Dean snorted. “Uh, sure. I dunno, man. They’re dicks from what I can tell. ‘Cept uh…” The ball of fire quickly shied into a corner where it believed Castiel could not see it. “’Cept you.”

His gaze focused on the peculiar reaction of Dean’s core before providing a curt nod. “Thank you, Dean.”

 

Sometime after Castiel’s – _Cas’s_ – official rebellion against Heaven and his brothers, he takes note that Dean’s soul neither settled nor tried to protect him whenever he was around, unlike how it behaved around Bobby or Sam. It _reached_ for Cas, wanting to, but also shying at the thought of holding onto Cas’s grace, however impossible that feat may be.

Cas smiled, proud that it continued to recognize him even from their tasking journey in Hell – even as Cas began to fall.

He did not understand however when, like the flames he once compared it to, it one day ignited at his presence. Somehow, his grace had become the oxygen to the fire of Dean’s soul.

 

It made Cas really happy when Dean’s soul jumped in excitement upon rescue from Zachariah’s sentencing of Dean to the alternate dimension. It matched with Dean’s own facial expression, which was too often rare. His exterior was hardly ever in sync with the emotions that his soul displayed.

He could see how lonely it had been, and while Dean had not explained to Cas what had happened, he could tell that the other world was not pleasant.

Later that night, when Dean slept, Cas could see the extensions of his soul reaching out to him. It was not in the same manner as before, when all his soul wanted to do –if he had to describe its actions with a word – was _play_ with Cas’s grace. It was desperate now.

Cas took away Dean’s nightmares for the night, but even when the soul stretched for his grace, he did not respond, Uriel’s last words to him ringing in his mind.

 

There was one night that neither Cas nor Dean spoke of in the days following. It was when Dean thrashed around in his sleep. He was eventually conscious enough to plead for the angel’s company next to him on his bed and ignored Cas’s offer to take his nightmares away with his powers.

They laid there awkwardly, with Cas unsure how to assemble his vessel’s limbs and Dean constantly tugging at one of Cas’s arms only to have to move and fix the position of Cas’s leg. But despite calming down from his nightmare, it was clear that Dean was still visibly shaken. And so, for the first time since Cas raised Dean from perdition, he allowed contact between his grace and Dean’s soul, enveloping it very much like he was doing with his own vessel.

Dean’s soul melted into Cas’s embrace, and despite the troubled entanglement of their limbs earlier, Cas felt at ease, suddenly wishing he had done this from the very start. He had always reasoned that the soul desired for company, especially seeing as many of the Winchesters’ closest friends and family have perished.

If Cas could later describe it, he would say it was the first time Dean’s soul propositioned him, knelt down in front of him and asked his grace to dance. But Cas’s grace remained still in its position, providing a safety net but never giving a formal response to the soul. He stared directly at the wall across from him all night, mind on and off from the tight grasp of a human soul onto him, the first moments of ease since having fallen.

It wasn’t until dawn, when Dean’s four hours were up, though Cas wished the hunter would take better care of himself and settle for another few hours, that he sleepily pushed himself from the bed.

While rubbing his eyes, he asked: “Something wrong, Cas?”

Cas looked up and saw the scarless soul that he carefully stitched together with precision, relaxing peacefully after a night’s worth of being in the angel’s close proximity and it took all of the strength he could muster at that very moment not to reach out and hold onto it again. Dean, however, stared at him impassively, waiting for an answer though his eyelids droop heavily, yearning for more sleep.

He could feel the very core of his grace cross dimensions again despite his wishes, flowing easily when it would have been much more reluctant around his siblings, tightening its hold around Deal’s soul. Much to Dean’s confusion, Cas merely repeated Uriel’s last observation of him before his rebellion:

“It appears I have been nicked.”

 

That was not the last night the two of them laid together on the same bed, though if Sam or Bobby ever asked, Cas was inclined to deny any accusations as per Dean’s request.

Cas hadn’t minded. The entirety of Dean Winchester – and not just his soul— was comforting. The warmth that exuded from the hunter’s touch reminded Cas what he rebelled heaven for; likewise, his grace had shielded the human from his Hellish nightmares.

He made sure Dean received more than four hours of sleep, canvasing the whole room with his wings. Surely he did not have as many as an Archangel would, but he hoped, as Dean laid with his head tucked into Cas’s neck, that they were enough. That the millions of feathers would be enough to shield Dean from the outside world –from the dim lights outside of the motel, from the low engine roar of a passing car, from the rotation of the earth, revolving around its sun—so that Dean could have a moment of timelessness in which he didn’t have to worry.

And while Cas’s quest for God had been for nought—

(he still clasped onto Dean’s amulet tightly)

—he prayed that during those times when they lay by one another, that for Dean, it was enough to protect him.

 

Ellen and Jo Harvelle were the last ones aside from himself and Dean to fall asleep, prepared for the next day. Bobby and Sam had long ago retreated, the former mentioning something about old bones Cas had been sure he’d healed some time ago, while the young hunter didn’t want to drink too much the night before a battle.

“Cas.”

More often than he would have liked, the presence of just Sam would have been enough to discourage Dean from inviting Cas to share the same bed as he, regardless of how haunted he felt. But it must have been that very fear that prompted the hunter to pull Cas by the sleeves of his trench coat that night, the same one that pushed the pair into the den of iniquity. The fear of having been unaccomplished.

“Cas.”

Cas had readied himself to lay down next to Dean, his grace eager to hold the man’s soul in their nightly embrace, preparing itself to sooth away the creaks that allowed nightmares to slip through. But Dean hadn’t wanted that that night.

That night, Dean’s soul and Cas’s grace danced for the first time. They latched onto each other as if their first dance would be their last; appropriate, when Cas really considered it, because this may as well have been their last night. Cas could literally _feel_ the fiery embers, each flame that caressed his grace, showing so much more than mere _recognition_.

“Cas, Cas, _Cas_!”

Sweat trickled down Cas’s back – one of his more human reactions as of late. But fornication, violence and sin: Cas hadn’t minded them as much as he once did, for Dean was all this but still radiated like a lighthouse to Cas’s ship, guiding him through life just as it once had in the afterlife.

Dean moaned against Cas’s mouth, their hips grinding together in fluid motions, synchronized for once with the dance between his grace and Dean’s soul, with the reverberating beats of their bleeding hearts.

Their clothes had been discarded long ago, as was the initial awkwardness that involved a lot of apologies what with Cas being unsure and Dean not knowing what to do with a penis not his own. They made up for it, in due time, with _yes_ ’s and _no_ ’s and more words of emotion and love than Cas ever thought was possible to come out of Dean Winchester’s mouth.

And if Cas hadn’t memorized every inch of Dean’s soul already, then he had done so that night—burnt it into the back of his vessel’s skull. He pried every reaction possible from Dean, watched hungrily at the way Dean panted, the way Dean grinned proudly and lovingly when Cas came for the first time, the way his soul kept shining so bright, it was a wonder how Cas’s eyes didn’t burn out.

After they cleaned themselves up, Dean pulled Cas towards him again; for that night, the soul of the Righteous Man and the grace of the fallen angel were at peace.

 

 

 

“What shall we do with Metatron now?”

Cas was not their leader, not their commander. He was no longer a proper angel of Heaven, not part of a garrison or a member of the Host, but he was part of a team and he knew there were others who needed to contribute their opinions unto Metatron’s punishment, not just his. He left Metatron in his brothers’ and sisters’ care with ease, hurrying himself back to the bunker to prove God’s scribe wrong.

Borrowed wings propelled him forward with difficulty, but he arrived at the Men of Letters headquarters in no less than a fraction of a second, eyes frantically scouting for the familiar light that once guided him through the depths of Hell – desperately seeking for the embers that provided warmth in the arctic air of purgatory.

It wasn’t here.

Aside from Sam who stood up immediately with watery eyes and hardened jaw, pain evidently etched onto his face, Cas knew there was someone else in the building. He could hear them. Without the younger Winchester’s approval or explanation, Cas knew there was someone else in the bedroom down the hall.

But he couldn’t _see_ him.

Cas was reluctant to move farther, but his legs inched forward of their own volition, something that they have seem to do over the years. Dean’s soul once penetrated through layers of cement—was once brighter than a full moon in the middle of haunted woods. If only for a brief moment, Cas hoped that he couldn’t see it because his own stolen grace was diminishing, robbing himself of the ability to see such wonders.

Even after the apocalypse that wasn’t, Cas had depended on the fires that burned in Dean’s body. It was those warming flames that held onto Cas’s grace during their moments of despair, like a couple walking down the streets with their hands entwined; back then, it felt natural…fitting. Eventually, those embers became what differentiated his Dean from Naomi’s plethora, for hers were nothing short of empty vessels that couldn’t turn on a bulb of light if they had tried.

Cas continued to walk down the hallway, his hand extending for the doorknob. He froze. The grace his body contained growled harshly, in the very same way it had done the first time Cas sealed it within him. It wasn’t his; Cas could feel it the moment it entered him, but nothing had ever been official until he had ran into Dean and instead of their usual embrace, both soul and grace had battled one another in unfamiliarity.

Even when he physically had come into contact with Dean, even when they were physically together, it hadn’t felt the same as it used to be when not only their bodies aligned, but as did their very cores. They hadn’t danced in a long time, and as Cas finally twisted the knob, there was a moment when he feared they would never do so again.

He could see the limp body lying in front of him and he refrained from making any noise, as if afraid to wake the man up. Cas attempted to settle his shallow breaths and momentarily closed his eyes, reflecting back on the days when Dean’s soul once held onto him without pain—without abandonment. He tried to remember when it shone with fiery embers—wanting to—seeking for protection.

He took one step forward, and his hands quickly grasped onto Dean’s cold ones, only tearing apart just as fast; his stolen grace hissed at him in agony.

Cas hesitantly glanced downwards. He stared at the bloodied man, scarred and torn as if he had never been healed by an angel, stitched together with all of Cas’s pure grace. He could feel the lump in his throat harden and the water in the corner of his eyes escape as he looked down at the broken man, in pieces like he was back down in Hell. And this time, there was no light to guide Cas to him.

Just lumps of coal, drowning in ash and smoke and oblivion.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna cover seasons 6 and 7 in more detail...but it's sorta been a while and I've sorta permanently deleted certain events from those seasons, so.... :)


End file.
